The Book of Loony Tales 4: Denethor and his sons
by any1
Summary: The Book of Loony Tales – memories of a Middle Earth therapist, a coproduction with suyetsumu, puts Tolkien characters where they belong on the couch. In Volume 4, it's Denethor's, Boromir's and Faramir's turn.


**From: The Book of Loony Tales – memories of a Middle Earth therapist. Volume four: Denethor and his sons**

"You have always preferred Boromir to me. You let me strive and strive for your fatherly love, but it is a no-win-situation. Whatever I do, Boromir can do it better in your eyes. How do you think I can live always bearing that pressure – the wish to please you, and the knowledge that I never can? You _make_ me a failure, father." And with these words, the young man jumped up from his armchair and left the room, slamming the door behind him, probably off to quench his anger by making war in Ithílien.

I gazed after him, _almost_ feeling sorry for him – only that a therapist does not feel sorry as a principle. It wasn't that I appreciated his outbreak; rather the cold eyes of his father made me think that my, this was a chilly family. His brother all the while sat there, relaxing in his armchair, toying idly with the horn on his belt and looking, I could not help but noticing, rather pleased.

"Do you want to continue the session, or would you rather not?" I asked the two. Of course, they'd have to pay for my time even if they left; I hoped they were aware of that. However, as this was a family therapy session, I wondered whether they would want to continue it without the family's youngest member, even if it _is_ decidedly bad style to storm out of group therapy.

"_We_ don't need the therapy," came the prompt reply of the patriarch. "It's not us who've got the problem, Dr Hesheid, it's Faramir."

"I see." Denial – always a choice power tool in a difficult relationship. "Well, it's up to you. You are perfectly welcome to call it a day or stay and discuss Faramir's problem with me if you choose to, then."

Denethor was staring at me; Boromir was fondling his horn. As they made no move to leave, I decided to resume the session, now concentrating on the two men before me.

"At what point did you first notice there was a problem in your family, Steward of Gondor?" Ask a trivial questions, let them talk for a bit, get the feeling for the conflict between them.

"Faramir was always envious of my toy Númenoreans – and my horn. He's been a nuisance since he was a kid." It was the first time the elder son of the Steward had spoken to me since his rather boisterous self-introduction as heir of the Steward. I turned to him.

"So there was rivalry between you two in your childhood, you say?"

"Heck, no. I'm no rival of that wimp," was Boromir's rather haughty reply. "He's the kind of softie who gives his horse a name, talks to elves and won't kill without need. Worse, his loyalty to Gondor appears to be smaller than his love for every mindless creature that crawls on the face of Middle Earth. He was always that way – as a boy, he used to save beetles and spiders, a conduct unworthy of a man. Naturally, my father prefers me." He flashed a toothpaste commercial smile at his father, who furrowed his brow.

"Dearly as I love both of my sons," Denethor said gravely, ignoring Boromir's all too obvious grin, "I do have to concede that my younger son is not quite in his right mind. However, I hold someone else to blame for his failings: He listens to that Mithrandir far too much – a wandering wizard who gives him funny ideas."

"Let me get things straight," I interrupted him. "You, Boromir, believe that from your childhood on, Faramir was envious of you; you also call him unmanly. You, Steward of Gondor, believe the wizard Mithrandir to have spirited your son away from you. Would you disagree with your son's opinion that there was rivalry between your sons in your childhood?"

"In the days of their childhood," Denethor replied, "there was little blemish on my world, and my sons and wife lived in peace. I was the unquestioned ruler of my country, and my eldest son was my heir – there was no doubt, no rivalry, no shadow. All too soon, these happy days were lost, however. The Enemy is rising again, Gondor is falling into decay, and so is the house of Stewards. All is lost, and even in my own family there is discord. Faramir betrays his own father by believing in the lies told by that upstart, Mithrandir. And now it's come to the worst – the Stewards of Gondor are visiting a _family therapist_." You could hear the word 'shrink' resonate in his italics.

"_And_ sissy boy storms out of the therapy session," Boromir added. "Such behaviour is not worthy of a prince – a Steward's son, I mean."

"Ah yes, princes." Denethor made a show of sighing. "Some kinds of behaviour are just royally foolish, such as sulking and leaving. Other kinds are just – well, royal." Suddenly, he looked me straight into the eye. "So what do you think of my eldest, Dr Hesheid – would he not be worthy of being a prince, a _king_ even?"

Ah yes, kingship, there we were. I should have expected it.

"Are you looking for an assessment of Boromir's personality, or an assessment of the political situation, Steward of Gondor?" I retorted. He couldn't possibly expect either of me, could he?

While Denethor appeared still to be musing about what to reply, my eyes strayed to Boromir: Was he embarrassed by his father's blunt inquest made to such an unfitting judge as me? His facial expression showed the contrary: With a pleased smile, Boromir pulled a light-blue pack out of his chain-mail's breast pocket. When he pulled out a cigarette, I interfered. "I would kindly ask you not to smoke in my office," I said gently.

Sullenly, he twisted the little packet bearing the oh-so-telling image in his fingers, unsure of whether to comply and put it away. The winged crown, of course, they would never be able to let go of the thought. Was that why they were really here, or at least, why the two of them had stayed after Faramir had left – to talk about kingship? I mean, a shrink is sworn to silence, even if confronted with some truly outrageous desires.

"Dr Hesheid," Denethor finally answered my question – at least, in a way: "I am asking your professional opinion on my son's character. All of Minas Tirith knows him to be a supreme thinker and war strategist, bravest of fighters, the kind of hero most likely to lead our failing people into a glorious sunset. However, what would you say – is he fit to be king?"

Lead into a glorious sunset, indeed. A Númenor complex – the assumption one is better than other people, the compulsive desire to move westward and seek glory in death? Perhaps so – not altogether unlikely with their ancestors, I thought. On the other hand, perhaps it was just a coincidence.

"If there is no question of having a king in Gondor, there is no point of me discussing whether or not you are fit to be one, Boromir – or is there?" I asked the young man now toying with his unlit Gaulloise who was being discussed as if the wasn't there. Boromir noticed my look and put the fag away.

Denethor sighed. "I think we are wasting our time here, Doctor. We don't need your services; after all, it's Faramir who is the sissy and the family lunatic. Come, Boromir, let us go home to our white fortress."

"Sure." Boromir smirked, but when Denethor put on his cloak, he dawdled, looking for some misplaced riding gloves and straightening feathers on his helmet until they looked like wings. His manoeuvre was so obvious that I asked: "Would you mind answering me a few questions on your health insurance, Mr Boromir? – I'll send him right after you, Steward of Gondor."

Denethor nodded and actually left after a curt goodbye – I'm not sure whether he was too dense to see through my all-too-blunt request to talk to his son on his own, or whether he just didn't mind.

"Now, what did you want to talk about with me, Mr Boromir?" I asked when Denethor had finally left.

Boromir sighed. "It's about father. You see, he tries to make it look as if only Faramir had a problem, but the trouble is – oh well." He made a show of looking over his shoulder as if to convince himself that Denethor had really left the premises, then he whispered: "Well, I do have the impression he's – hearing voices, having visions, you know? Recently he's been locking himself in, and then he appears to be talking to himself. Afterwards, he appears to believe that he _knows_ things – things that happen far off, in the Black Country, for example. Then he's making a fetish out of things – for example, he's got that crystal ball, goodness knows from which junkshop. He never lets anybody touch it and calls it a 'source of wisdom'. If you ask me, that's crazy." He fiddled with his horn as he obviously always did when he was nervous.

First the father had been claiming his younger son was crazy – or at least, a weakling, which in his eyes probably amounted to the same; now the elder son was telling me the father was crazy – deluded, possibly schizophrenic.

"Your father may have reasons to close himself in, and to treasure his possessions," I replied.

Boromir frowned at me. "But he's got a _problem_ with that ball. You must fix it. Talk to him."

Fix it. They always think these things are so easy. "I'm very happy to talk to your father if he wants to, but I cannot _make_ him talk about it," I explained. "Also, I have the impression that not only the Steward of Gondor treasures his special possessions. You, for example, care a lot for that horn, don't you?"

"Oh." He blushed – not in embarrassed way, but rather proudly. "So you've noticed."

"Does the horn symbolise something to you, Boromir?"

"Well, of course – it symbolises the supremacy of the Stewards and the loyalty of my house to the lost kings," he replied, conspicuously happy to talk about it (and blithely unaware of the irony in his words).

"Other than that?" I pressed on. "I mean, I'm not sure whether you noticed, but you keep stroking it."

Denethor's heir blushed crimson, but other than that managed to keep up a straight face. "Sometimes a horn is just a horn, Dr Hesheid," he lectured. "It's an heirloom, you understand, which is passed down from father to son in our family – from man to man."

"I see," I replied, thinking of his hornless brother.

"Well, will you talk to father?" he asked, rising from his chair.

"I will suggest single sessions with each of you next time you three are here together," I replied somewhat evasively as he was leaving my practice. After all, I could not _make_ Denethor talk to me about the voices he heard – or about his balls. Crystal balls, I mean.

Just when I decided it was time for some well-deserved tea, someone knocked on my door. As if by instinct, I knew it was one of the Steward's family – as it turned out, the younger brother, Faramir.

"Dr Hesheid, have you got a minute?"

Sure, a therapist always has a minute for his or her patients. Patients come first – and long before tea break, at any rate. Some days, I get very thirsty indeed.

"Of course, have a seat. How can I help you?"

Faramir slouched down on my couch. "It's about my brother", he replied.

I should have known. There'd been a fifty-fifty chance, though; he might also have come here to tell me that his _father_ was the family loony. "What is it you want to tell me about your brother?"

"Well…" He made a show of hesitating, then he continued: "Boromir – he has got these strange notions about war, you know. He likes war too much, talks about it a lot, thinks about it far too much. He has this strange fascination with weapons and war machinery – for example, he is obsessed with catapults. Moreover, he always talks about how we need a kind of super-weapon, a powerful device to bend all countries to Gondor's rule. I mean, he has grown up mostly without a mother – we both have, of course, because she died early, but somehow it has affected him more – as if he was lacking a woman's influence. And then there is his constant talk about kingship – sometimes he just sounds like or father. If you ask me, that is very neurotic, even compulsive behaviour. I think you should talk to him about that."

How I love amateur psychologists who feel they have to tell us what to do… I was fascinated by the fact that Faramir hadn't included the horn in his list, the most obvious in all Boromir's neuroses. Hadn't he noticed it, or had he refrained from mentioning it for some other reason? Did he perhaps have a horn of himself stashed away somewhere – or did he secretly desire his brother's?

So many questions I couldn't answer right now; all I knew was that I definitely wanted my tea before Morgoth himself would arrive for _his_ therapy sessions, so I ushered Faramir outside with a promise to take a look at his brother. When he was gone, I sighed with relief. It would take a lot of therapy to sort out their problems, I decided – and it would cost the state of Gondor a lot of money, of course. But that, luckily, wasn't my problem.

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Disclaimer: In response to a challenge of suyetsumu – thank you for the prompt, for beta-reading and your additions. – Of course I _am_ aware that I owe an, er, prominent feature of this text to Cassandra Claire's famous diaries. Also, thanks for zombieplatypus for sharing the catapult joke.


End file.
